


Death in the Afternoon

by WaterMe



Series: Popping the Cork [2]
Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: (those two tags are unrelated for the record), Aftermath of sex pollen, Gen, Holy FUCK Identity Issues, Just some good ole friendship, M/M, Peter is a stripper, Slowly removing that b, Wade Wilson is a Crazy Good Bro, Wade also has a secret identity, but no actual sex is had, emerging bromance, honestly man Peter is a mess, light Peter/other(s), no one dies it's a Hemingway reference, positive depiction of sex work, prequel that can be read as a standalone
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-28
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-12 11:20:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29758854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WaterMe/pseuds/WaterMe
Summary: Deadpool and Spider-Man have two very different (andverypassionate) first meetings. So why can’t they seem to seal the deal??Or: How to stop worrying and learn to love the friendzone.
Relationships: (Pre) Peter Parker/Wade Wilson, Spider-Man & Deadpool
Series: Popping the Cork [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2186385
Comments: 20
Kudos: 68
Collections: Isn't it Bromantic?





	Death in the Afternoon

**Author's Note:**

> Hey friends, guess who's back for a sparkling Champagne-versary?
> 
> So I had these grand plans to write a sequel to "Champagne Room" called "Popping the Cork," all about Peter and Wade and the emotional aftermath of disclosing all three of your secret identities to a dude you don't know all that well all in one day, and dating after grief and loss, and sex work, and non-monogamy, and sorting through your fucking attachment issues when you haven't let yourself be emotionally close to _anyone_ in _years_.
> 
> You know, just Fluffy Spideypool Things.
> 
> But now it's a year on, and I don't think I'll have the energy for a longfic for a while, and when I do write my next one I don't think it will be this. So I've been going through my draft of Champagne 2 in an attempt to turn 'the good bits' into one shots, because I actually had drafted a fair bit that I liked a lot, and I want y'all to get to read it. 
> 
> Happy Birthday, Bambi <3

> Ernest Hemingway’s DEATH IN THE AFTERNOON Cocktail:
> 
> Pour one jigger absinthe into a Champagne glass. Add iced Champagne until it attains the proper opalescent milkiness. Drink three to five of these slowly.
> 
> (EDITOR’S NOTE: After six of these cocktails _The Sun Also Rises_.)
> 
> \- “So Red the Nose, or Breath in the Afternoon,” a book of celebrity cocktails from 1935

Spider-Man wakes up in a strange bed. 

This is cause for _great_ concern.

Peter waking up in a strange bed? It happens, maybe a little more than he’d like to admit.

Bambi waking up in a strange bed? Never. Bambi is always in control of the situation. He has to be: control is safety. 

(And anyway, Bambi never wakes up _anywhere._ Bambi only exists in strip clubs, so — aside from the occasional nap tucked into the corner of the dressing room — Bambi never sleeps.)

Bambi is control and he is caution and Bambi is always exactly where he means to be.

Spider-Man is rarely in control, and he’s basically the exact opposite of cautious, but waking up in a strange bed (half dressed, with his hand down his pants) without remembering how he got there is _not_ normal, and it is _very not okay._

Where is his _mask?_ Whoever did this to him couldn't have made him feel more exposed if they had stripped him the rest of the way naked. 

It takes a few deep breaths to de-escalate the freak-out level from nuclear to merely catastrophic.

Everything aches; overstimulated nerves jangle like the aftermath of a sound cannon. His teeth itch, and his head is killing him, and when he spots a bottle of water by the bedside he has it halfway to his mouth before he can remind himself that drinking strange beverages in a situation like this is a _terrible_ idea. But he's parched, and the seal is intact, so he shrugs and cracks it open and takes a swallow, digging through the tangle of sinfully soft sheets until, with a sigh of short-lived relief, he finds his mask. 

It's not the only mask he finds, and that’s what sends the Spidey Freak-out Meter skyrocketing back up. 

Well, okay, first he finds a mint condition Princess Di Beanie Baby, and a carefully wrapped Gordita Crunch Wrap (“For later,” his brain unhelpfully supplies). But then his fingers brush the second mask. Heʼs never been up close and personal with this particular red and black pattern, but he's heard _more_ than enough about the man who wears it. 

_Deadpool._

Plenty of people had warned him that Deadpool was violent. Unpredictable. But would he do… _this?_

Gritting his teeth, Spidey squeezes his protesting skin into tactical spandex, rolls on a mask that threatens to suffocate him. He still feels better with his face on. With the same deep breath he takes before he dives headfirst off skyscrapers, Spider-Man throws open the door.

“Heyyyy, champ,” says… Deadpool, apparently.

Spidey, coiled for the attack, hesitates.

For all that people like to gossip about Deadpool, no one bothered to mention he’s a ‘ratty bathrobe and Crocs with socks under them’ kind of guy when he's at home. Yikes. His mask creases at the forehead. “You feeling better, buddy?”

And that’s how Spider-Man meets Deadpool.

There’s a long, awkward silence, and Deadpool curls in on himself a little, tosses his game controller to the side. “Do you — what do you remember?”

“What should I remember?” Spidey asks, and his voice cracks, and damn it, he came out here to _confront_ Deadpool, not cry at him.

Deadpool twists the stained sleeves of his robe in his gloved hands. “I found you? In a warehouse? There was a…” He looks up, mask a twist of apology. “Spidey… plain and simple, it was sex pollen.”

“Oh.” says Spidey. It’s hazy, but it starts to come back to him. A face full of powder, and then his suit was too tight, and then there were firm biceps that he couldn’t keep his hands off of, and everything just felt so _good._ “Oh my god, I asked you to fu — to have sex with me.”

“Yuppp,” Deadpool says, voice tight, looking at everything in the room _but_ Spidey.

“I _begged_ you to — do it,” Spidey says, and he can’t quite believe himself, but he sits down on the couch next to Deadpool, puts his head in his hands.

Deadpool just hisses through his teeth.

“…why didn’t you?”

“Wait…” Deadpool’s voice is very, very close, and Spidey jerks back at the sudden sight of cartoonish white eyes inches from his own. “Are your _feelings hurt?”_

Spidey flinches. “No! Of course not!”

Deadpool lounges back in what he surely considers a seductive lean. The crinkle of the cheetos bag under his elbow really sells it (it kinda does, though, because Spidey suddenly realizes that he’s _starving)._

“If you want me to fuck you, you can just ask, baby. I'd be up in that spandex in a hot second.” 

“You’re disgusting,” Spidey mutters.

“Unf!” Deadpool flails back, wallowing happily in a pool of fast food wrappers. “And he's even good at the dirty talk!”

“Oh my _god,”_ Spidey yelps, swatting at him, and then he starts to laugh, but then he realizes he's been laughing too long, he should probably stop, it wasn’t even that funny and this is getting _really_ awkward — 

“Spider-Man.” 

A hand on his shoulder stops him in his tracks. The tightness in his chest tells him it’s been a hot minute since he took a full breath. _Panic._ Neat. 

“Spidey,” Deadpool shifts from flippant to genuine so fast Spidey's aching head spins, “ I would never do you dirty like that. And I didn’t see anything, either, even though you were mad as hell about _that,_ lemme tell ya. Tried to strip down in the street until I bribed you with the kinds of promises it breaks a man's heart to have to break. Little Deadpool is _still_ weeping about it. But I kept you in your cute little super jammies, mask and all, until I got you back here and locked you in my bedroom. I swear.”

Spidey nods faintly.

“Now, whether or not I jerked off to the absolutely obscene sounds you were making in _my bed…_ well, that’s between me and the shower wall. And the bathroom sink. And the compost bin in the kitchen. And a _little_ that made it through the window onto the fire escape. And a _lot_ on the carpet that _didn’t_ make it through the window to the fire escape.”

“Please stop.”

“I’m just saying, if you want a bro-job now that you’re sober, I will fall on that sword. Repeatedly.”

 _“Stop,”_ Spidey mutters to his clenched fists, “Seriously, I’m _begging_ you.”

“That’s not what you sound like when you beg,” Deadpool sings. “And I would know. Bee tee dubs, you asked me where I found molly that worked with your metabolism, and gotta say, that was a _surprise._ Always heard you were kind of a boy scout. Spider scout?”

“Spider-Man doesn’t do drugs,” Spidey says, desperately.

Deadpool sniffs. “I sure hope not, if you burn right through ‘em. What a waste. There are sober kids in China, you know.”

Then,

“Hey, Webs, you wanna know a secret?”

“If I let you tell me your secret, will you promise to never call me ‘Webs’ again?”

“No dealio,” Deadpool beams. “Anyway. The secret is that being friendzoned is the best, you know why?” 

He fakes a luxurious yawn, stretches a heavy arm over Spidey's shoulders. Leans in close, whispers, 

“Because it means you have a friend.”

Spidey bites the inside of his cheek until it hurts. “Uh, wow,” he finally chokes out. “That… sure is a… sentiment.”

“I know!” chirps Deadpool. “So, best buddy, wanna stick around for Taco Tuesday? Rosalitaʼs opens at 5am, and that woman makes the best breakfast burrito this side of Trump's ultimate jack-off stroker of a wall.”

Spidey pauses, is almost tempted, but… 

“Yeah, not this time.” He ducks under Deadpool's arm, heads for the open window, cocks his head. “But hey, maybe I'll see you next Tuesday!” and then, with a gratuitous wink, he lets himself tip backwards into the night.

He hears a faint, “Yeah, well, maybe I'll meet _you_ on Pen Island!” as he swings away, and this time he can let himself laugh out loud.

  
  


Back home and in a hot shower, Peter can’t help but think back on how unexpectedly _kind_ Deadpool had been. And _that’s_ the thing that has him wondering, for the briefest moment, what it would have been like if things had gone a different way.

Not if Deadpool had made a different choice. If _he_ had. 

If he had _stayed._

He shakes his head so hard shampoo gets in his eyes. 

Thank _fuck_ Spider-Man isn’t interested in that shit.

( Spider-Man may, in fact, be ace. He certainly isn't _that kind_ of interested in the sweet young things he plucks from danger, swooning in his arms with stars in their eyes. Or the fans who slide into the DMs of his official Twitter account with some _very_ specific suggestions. Even his undeniably smokinʼ hot super-peers leave him lukewarm where it counts. Spider-Man hasn't felt that certain stirring in his spandex since… 

Well. 

We don't talk about them. 

Let’s just say Spider-Man hasn’t been interested in sex in a very, very long time and leave it at that. ) 

Meanwhile, Peter’s _too_ interested in it, maybe, and is maybe developing a bad habit of trying to fuck away his problems.

So that might be why it sounds… kinda nice. Just to have a friend. 

  
  


Bambi, who feels no shame, dreams about sex pollen and broad shoulders in red leather. _He_ would climb that merc like a tree.

(And that’s why Bambi is only allowed out at the club, because Spider-Man does not do drugs and Spider-Man does _not_ climb strange mercs like trees.)

  
  
  
  


**_A few years later, at Sister Margaret’s School for Wayward Girls…_ **

The afternoon shift at a strip club isn't the most glamorous, but for Bambi that's kind of the appeal. 

Saturday nights are a madhouse of noise and grabby hands, and there’s a ludicrously strong chance that Weasel will come crawling on his belly (always _right_ when Bambi’s about to take a high roller back) begging him to bounce some overly-drunk asshat. Afternoons are chill; he can spend the entire shift slowly wooing one or two big spenders, do a little homework, practice his pole tricks.

There aren’t a lot of slow minutes in Peter’s life. 

And the place is never _too_ slow. Sister Maggie’s doesn’t exactly cater to the nine-to-five crowd, and turns out both mercenaries and wine moms like their day drinking with a side of T&A. 

Today is a good day. Bambi’s managed to get some private dances in, do a few stage sets. He made his shift goal over the lunch rush and now he’s working up a little extra cash, trying to catch up from last month when the Rhino threw him around so bad he couldn’t show his bashed-up face at work for a week and a half (at least buy a guy dinner first, Aleksei, _c’mon)._

When he heads to the dressing room after his turn on stage, he walks face-first into a wall of gossip. 

“Yo, scary Wade’s here!”

“Don’t be a fuckin’ bitch, he’s not — ”

“I mean… he’s a little…”

“Something I need to take care of?” Bambi cuts in.

“No,” snaps Cayenne. “He’s not scary, or at least not more than anyone else in this fuckin’ place. He’s just got some scars, like we all do. But — ” she smirks, eyes Bambi up and down “ — there might be something you _wanna_ take care of…”

 _Oh,_ Bambi thinks,

_Pretty eyes._

Pretty eyes that had been glued to him his entire set. Pretty eyes that didn't approach, not once, not until the very last minute of Bambi's very last song. He’d meandered around the pole just in time to catch the back of a swiftly retreating hoodie, a few fresh hundreds and a single two-dollar bill settling like leaves across the rail.

_Well._

“You think?” Bambi asks, squeezing into a fishnet bodysuit so cheap it’ll probably be in shreds by the end of the afternoon. 

Cayenne raises a sharp brow. “You’re just his type. I mean. He has a lot of types. All the types. But you’re sure one of ‘em.”

“He a whale?”

“He’s the _great white_ whale. Get him in the VIP room and he’ll drop enough to set you up for rent for a month or two. But no one can lock him down as a sugar daddy. Gonna give it a shot?”

 _I don’t want a sugar daddy,_ Bambi thinks. _But rent would be nice, and pretty eyes and wide shoulders are a bonus._

And that’s how Bambi meets Wade.

He approaches cautiously, because he can handle himself, but part of handling yourself is not starting shit in the first place. (Bambi has learned this lesson better than Spider-Man, but that’s a whole other problem.)

His senses should be tingling, not a lot (ideally), but a tiny twinge of _be careful_ and _eyes open_ as he approaches someone who is almost certainly a mercenary, and who is most definitely concealing at least five weapons (and that’s just the ones he clocks over the table).

But… they’re not. He feels calm. Relaxed.

Safe?

He almost turns and bolts. Bambi does _not_ like surprises, and this complete lack of stranger-danger is _very_ much a surprise.

But he pushes through it, and he’s getting all the right signals, and all the right… everything. And goddamnit, he does _not_ hook up with people he meets at the club, he has, like, _one_ rule, but five minutes of cheesy banter has him wanting to swoop Wade up and take him away from this tawdry life and feed him snacks in front of the TV.

_Fuck._

He has to get this guy into the champagne room. He _has_ to. It’s the only way.

See, as soon as he pulls Wade through that grimy curtain it won’t matter how nice his eyes are, or how easily his voice curls right up Bambi’s spine. Once Wade sets foot in the VIP room he’ll be client-zoned, partitioned off into that _Do Not Fuck_ category that Bambi’s libido will never, ever touch.

So Bambi puts on the moves, full blast. Applies just the right amount of charm. A whole pile of sex kitten, the tiniest hint of nerdy boy-next-door. A precise dash of overshare.

Bambi is _very_ good at his job, and has Wade eating out of the palm of his hand.

Wade turns him down.

Wade _turns him down._

_Fuck._

Bambi’s gonna get Wade Wilson in the champagne room if it’s the _last thing_ he does. 

Tail between his legs, he almost runs headfirst into Big Denny.

Big Denny is the kind of guy who thinks he’s a mobster, the kind of guy who gave _himself_ the nickname ‘Big Denny.’ The type who thinks he’s big like the Kingpin, pure muscle under all that fat, when really he’s marshmallow fluff all the way down. But once you get past his dumb tough-guy act you can tell he’s lonely as hell, and when Bambi sets those big, meaty hands on his waist, Denny touches like Bambi’s made of glass.

It’s not two months rent, and it’s not broad shoulders, but it’s job satisfaction and a decent night’s pay, and sometimes that’s all you can ask.

  
  


Bambi finishes his shift with a little more cash from the stage than he’d expected, and with a funny little twinge in his chest that he didn’t expect to take home, either. He doesn’t let himself think about it too hard, just like he _definitely_ doesn't ask Weasel how often Wade Wilson comes around.

Spider-Man spends a few contented hours minding his city. As he swings over Rosalita’s he realizes that he hasn’t seen his strange, funny friend in red and black in a while. Maybe Deadpool will be back in town soon. 

Peter sleeps well, and wakes up the next morning exactly where he is supposed to be.

**Author's Note:**

> I love to know what you think, if you have time to leave a comment <3
> 
> Who but a monster would write a fic with sex pollen, strippers, and absolutely ZERO sex? It's me, I'm that monster. If you're into that, you can [find me and share this thing](https://waterme-stories.tumblr.com/post/644382256700473344/so-exactly-a-year-ago-i-finished-my-very-first) on Tumblr.
> 
> In other news, I just finished a goddamn novella of a Spideypool Noir fic, “[Three Steps to Inferno](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29384283/chapters/72185220)”, that I'm very proud of. It's not the fluffy romance that brings a lot of the people to this site, but if you like my writing you might give it a try. Plus it has fucking OIL PAINTINGS by [Atemluver](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Atemluver/pseuds/Atemluver) (Actual, Honest-to-God Artist).
> 
> Thank you as always to [Y_ellow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Y_ellow/pseuds/Y_ellow) and [AnGoose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnGoose/pseuds/AnGoose) <3 They just wrote a beautiful, sweet Spideypool epistolary (also with ART 😭) called “[To You.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29096850/chapters/71424966)”


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